Another American in Paris

This is a painting I've known for decades now since it hangs in the Gare de l'Est in Paris, a railway station close to where I live.

This station was the departing point to the front in eastern France for hundreds of thousands young French soldiers from 1914 up to 1918.

Just, little did I know that the painter was an American one who had lost one of his sons some months before the end of this nameless massacre.

The young man we see wearing a white shirt in the middle of the painting is holding a bouquet of flowers in his rifle which reminds of the French expression "partir fleur au fusil" which indicates how light-heartedly people at the time thought the war would be a matter of few weeks before the Germans would be flatly defeated.

There is a strong temptation to imagine this young man is actually Albert Herter's own son since this painting is made in remembrance of him and how could possibly his father not want to represent his beloved deceased in a painting dedicated to the dead of WWI?

This is another piece of information I've learned about the links that tie Americans and Paris. Guess there are still many others that I'm not aware of.

Déjà vu

Whenever I peruse the cartoons in the international press, it‘s always a sure bet that, when it comes to portray France and the French, I will meet 5 permanent fixtures cartoonists all over the world resort to:

1°) The Eiffel Tower.

Well, nothing wrong here, it helps to settle the setting. A bit repetitive but, well, no doubt, we’re in Paris, France.

2°) The béret.

Well, why not? Although it’s meanly worn on the country but I can see some in Paris too. Spaniards also wear the beret and much more than the French.

3°) The baguette.

It’s one among many other products bakers make and sell and one that is essentially to be found in Paris. But then again, it’s OK.

4°) The striped Jersey.

Now, this is really much more surprising. Where does that cliché come from? No French that I know of or see in the streets, on flicks or ad posters never wear striped jersey.

I once thought that it was a souvenir of Auguste Renoir’s painting at the time of Guy de Maupassant, but after I checked, the jersey wasn’t striped.

It eventually dawned on me that it had to do with le Mime Marceau (the upper part of his costume) who apparently made a smashing impact on the perception some Americans seem to have regarding the French. 

Because I’m positive on this: Next to no French ever wears a striped jersey, even on the beaches in July/August. But never mind…

5°) Napoléon.

There seems to be a real obsession with this historical figure, and not only among American cartoonists. You can be sure to find him in cartoons from Germany as well as Norway or India, Brazil or wherever.

Whichever French politician is portrayed, he’s entitled to his caricature as Napoleon. Be it De Gaulle, Mitterrand, Chirac and now Sarkozy, all French leaders are would-be Napoleon. Like every new Russian leader is the new Tsar of all Russias...

Let me tell you, if there’s something the French don’t exactly mull over it has to be Napoléon.

Of course 2 or 3 of these clichés are often to be found in the same cartoon.

My feeling is that cartoonists the world over haven’t much idea of what modern France and the French are and they all have to use again and again worn out clichés. On the other hand that’s what caricatures are made of: clichés and prejudice. 

If only they could be funny…

Henri le Chat noir

When Maureen Dowd wrote her unwillingly funny piece in the NYT the other day, she quoted A. Camus and a line I have never heard before: "Should I kill myself, or have a cup of coffee?" 

The existential trend of post-war France and Sartre as well as Camus have apparently left an enduring imprint on the image many Americans have of France and the French. It is not the first time -by far- that I read a text which indeed indicates how in America France is often associated with philosophy and deep thinking an essential element of everyday living.

As a funny illustration of this perception here are the thoughts of an American French speaking cat.

Paris Passion Magazine

Some weeks ago, I mentioned my bohemian life-style to SemperFidelis when we were exchanging about our respective stays in London in the 80s.

That was then one of these episodes and it was to be followed by another, longer period of free wheeling when I was a street vendor in Paris for a certain number of magazines.

Last week I was cruising on the web and eventually landed on this page. Wow, Paris Passion magazine was just one of these magazines and specifically the one I started my street hawker career with in July 1985, three months after I've returned from London. 

Only in Wikipedia! Obviously the article has been written by an insider, possibly the founder of the magazine.

360 days per year, from 8:pm to 1:am (talk of lazy, subsidized French workers...) from July 1985 to July 1989 I would hit the streets of the Les Halles district which was one of the vibrant, trendy places where to spend an evening in Paris during the 80s.

Since making money never was my ultimate raison de vivre, I was cashing in enough to pay the rent and the bills but my reward was that my life style was immensely fun and free (*).

All in all, I've sold over 5,000 copies of that English speaking magazine which means that I've met and talked to something like 5,000 American customers (a certain number of Brits too but mainly American buyers), a number one can multiply roughly by two since I was also selling that fashion magazine which boasted to be the most expensive magazine in the world (that was the slogan).

Of course I wouldn't spend hours talking with each and every American visitor (I was making a living after all) but yet, every day I would exchange and discuss with a good many number of people from about every corner of the Great Nation (aka the Land of the Free).

So, even if I have never set foot in the US, I suppose I can say I am not totally unaware and ignorant of what people across the pond look like and how to communicate with them. Notwithstanding the daily visits to the staff at the offices of the magazine, rue du pont neuf (well, this is not the rue of course but the pont neuf where the rue comes from).

Oh! Did I mention the American innocent girls who were lost in Paris and looking for a nice and friendly Parisian to help them out but were too afraid to ask because they couldn't speak French? Oh, well, I just did my duty when the opportunity would arise sir.

So, looking back to my past,  my 30s weren't a complete waste of time after all and leading a Bohemian like life isn't deprived of some positive aspects.

(*) Recently asked whether he regretted not to be a millionaire, Jimmy Wales answered that his life was much more interesting that theirs.

Learning while having fun

Speaking of English expressions... this cartoon produced in 1951 was meant to illustrate colloquialisms, sayings and expressions in English. Some of them may be typically American though.

For what I know, Avery's idea was also to introduce outsiders to new expressions of that time that could be difficult for older generations to understand. But maybe some of these so-called new expressions ot the beginning of the 50s have now turned obsolete?

I remember an American girl telling me "Feeling groovy" was old fashioned (and that was 30 years ago!)

Flying

Oh no, I'm not one of them...

Two slits on my head

Err... Did I mention I underwent surgery last year? Oh no, not the time when my right forearm was on fire, that was in December. In November I also entered the operating theater and it was my eyelids that were very much on the forefront of my concerns.

Like everybody when our eyes are going to experiment some treatment, I assume we all have some qualms and concerns. Won't the surgeon sneeze at an untimely moment?

So when they woke me up I was relieved to perceive the white gleam of... but of what exactly? All - and not everything - was immerged in an indiscernible white fog and a voice told me (probably, I don't exactly remember) not to worry, I just had been blindfolded and it will last until tomorrow. I hadn't been forewarned.

So the funniest part of the intervention was over and I was brought back to my room where I stayed stuck in my bed with a perf on my left forearm for the next 24 hours.

Oh boy, let me tell you that was like a life changing experience. Being blind isn't precisely like closing one's eyes for a few seconds or even a few minutes just to "see" how it feels to walk in one's apartment without seeing anything.

Lying on a bed on which you are blind and tied, you are then not much more than a mere living object relying 100% on others. Of course forget about Sudoku, cross words, Rubik's cube and their likes. Why didn't you listen to the radio some may ask? Just, try to use any smart phone when you can't see the keyboard, the touches and you don't even know whether you're holding it in the right position...

And one has to be very careful with where the few objects you need are positioned since if you let them drop... well you simply can't retrieve them, they're gone and you're more alone that you previously were.

So basically, you're confronted with your inner thoughts and you discover that isn't much really to keep you busy. 

Since I always have tablets of Lexomil with me I took what it takes to sleep as much as I could. Yet, I felt twice like bouts of anxiety which were quickly overcome since I knew I will be freed at 4 pm the day after. It is possible that I asked the nurses three times which time it was

And also, I shouted in the middle of the night because I needed some bodily fluids to be evacuated and I couldn’t reach the alarm device which was gone somewhere along the bed. That is when the nurse, who was just a voice to me, said: “Look, I put it here” (verbatim).  And it was a reminder of how different it is when one is still present to the world whereas the other isn’t. A world of difference indeed, unless it is a different world... 

Speaking of world... This experience led me once again to the conclusion that the world and the universe too only exist as long as they are perceived by a reflecting consciousness. A process that can happen only with light reaching my brain through these two slits on my head. Behind and covered by said slits, are two drops of water which permit opsins to be kept alive and allow light to activate the cells which in the end create in my mind a representation of the world, and not the world itself of course.

The proposition seems paradoxical I know but yet, there's no mountain and no trees to the blind, no Moon and no planets and no galaxies and no black holes, save metaphorically speaking. The very existence of the world depends on the possibility that it may be perceived with light as the ultimate medium that enables the formation of images upon which we accommodate our skills in order to survive.

And every morning when we wake up, we thoughtlessly rub our two drops of water like they weren’t the very condition that permits the world to exist. The universe is so fragile indeed and it is at our command and most of us don’t realize.

…what he knows is not a sun and an earth, but only an eye that sees a sun, a hand that feels an earth; that the world which surrounds him is there only as representation, i.e., only in relation to something else, the consciousness… 

(to be followed here)

The day I felt embarrassed

All along the 60s the space race really enthralled me. Gagarine, (yes, I was there...) the Mercury, Gemini and Apollo programs. What a hell of excitement that was for a teenager then!

After their feat, the three Americans who made history were on a world promotion tour. And then they arrived in Paris to be introduced live on French television from the Palais de Chaillot, on October the 8th of 1969.

Man! And you thought they'd performed the hardest part of their mission... How wrong you were!

They had to endure an endless speech by no other than Maurice DRUON, of the French Academy. Why was this man chosen to welcome the American astronauts will for ever remain a mystery.

I still can vividly remember the three stoic men standing in row behind the talkative peacock and I couldn't help thinking what their thoughts might have been...

"Boy, they didn't warn us back home that the French leg would be that painful!"

No, really, I was so embarrassed that these men would be given such a cogent confirmation of what the French are renowned for among Americans: pretty good at making lengthy speeches and totally impotent when push comes to shove...

And Druon would go on and on and on and I was saying to myself: "Will he ever shut his big mouth?".

I had to admire the patience and fortitude of Armstrong, Collins and Aldrin for keeping a permanent smile floating on their lips while this buffoon was making a fool of himself. And to be polite and courteous enough to nonetheless thank him when their ordeal had come to an end.

Every time I remember this sinister episode of French stupidity I hope someone at least came to them and apologize for the despicable show they had been dragged into.

43 years later, I still feel embarrassed...

Locks of love

 

So there is this article in the NYT today with the usual clichés about Love and the French so that Americans continue fantasizing.

Another example of over generalisation: the phenomena which is described here is mainly a Parisian thing for what I know and 99,9% of the French (outside Paris I mean) don't know about it.

But even in Paris with say 2 million inhabitants, I'm not sure more than 1 % of them know about this tourist's habit which seems to be less than a few year old.

The only place where I saw these padlocks was on the Pont des Arts. It took me a while to understand what it was all about until I put two and two together.

Bon, ça ne mange pas de pain et la Ville de Paris les enlève régulièrement, otherwise there would be grappes of padlocks over the River Seine.

The interesting thing though is that a practise which in the first place probably started with one young man having an idea to have his girlfriend marvel at how he was in love with her, has been imitated God knows how and has now become the thing to do for dozens of thousands couples, whether Americans/Japanese/Chinese etc. and seems to epitomize in the eyes of millions from the world the way "the French" approach the notion of love.

But now I notice the name of the author of the article is Agnès Poirier which is as French as you get and I wonder if she's not on a secret mission commanded by some sort of French Tourist Department (North-America section) in order to perpetuate some myth re. the French and love.

Her theory about how "the French" regard love as essentially being free and not bound in the wedlock's of marriage most probably appeal to all males in the world, notwithstanding their nationality. I for one am of this opinion too ;-)

But I'm not so sure females the world over, again notwithstanding their nationality, share this purported sense that love means being free and open to the mille et une opportunities that everyday brings along though...

How did their mothers raise them?

 

In my opinion, comedies are much closer to reality than are dramas. We may, to a certain extent, identify with the characters of dramas but we know dramas are fictions and we next to never actually live situations like those represented in, say, Casablanca, Rain man, Gone with the wind etc. you name them.

Everybody is supposed to be amused with comedies and generally is because comedies resort to a theme that is several thousand years old (to say the least), that is relations between men and women and, contrary to dramas, more or less everybody's concerned here.

In particular, there's an absolute and universal constant within this theme and it is the incredible propensity of men - whatever their age - to behave like they were 15 year old kids if not rightly 7 year old children.

Think of the Simpsons for example where Marge rolls her eyes about ten times in each episode (granted, Homer is hmmm... "different" but yet).

Or TV ads, where men are so often portrayed like irresponsible kids who would be lost without their wives and women are depicted as the real and only grown ups.

Why is it that men are so easily prone to regress and act like helpless creatures who want either to impress their wives/girls friends or arouse the maternal instinct of their partners? Haven't their mothers loved them enough?

And women? Why do they next to never regress and only for several months perhaps but certainly not to the point men do when they eventually act like toddlers? Have their fathers loved them all enough?

Could it be that mothers refuse to hand their sons over to other women and program them like time bomb other women will have to deal with?

Hmmm... life is so complicated. I know what I'm talking about anyway, I'm a great offender myself!

What men don't know about women

What women don't know about men

Hard times

Anyone who would have thought Marxism was the main topic of this post would have been seriously misled...

(but Hegel will soon be called upon though)

Divination

Savoureux divertissement ces temps-ci d'entendre les cadors de Sarkoland se bouffer le nez pour savoir qui est responsable du comment et du pourquoi de la branlée. Non seulement leur champion leur a fait perdre absolument tous les scrutins (jusqu'aux Sénatoriales ! dont le système était à ce point verrouillé qu'il devait les protéger jusqu'à la fin des temps) depuis 5 ans mais ils continuent à protéger l'ombre du géant dont la geste d'envergure historique (si si) leur a fait manger la poussière.

Et les voilà, eux et les militants, nous souffler dans les bronches que le bilan de Sarko est exceptionnel sans nous donner évidemment la moindre illustration qui pourrait, sait-on jamais, valider leurs vésanies partisanes et insensées...  

À propos d'Histoire justement, j'en ai déjà entendu deux ou trois (Estrosi, Hortefeux et peut-être Bachelot) ressortir l'élément de langage number one de tout aspirant au fine art de se f. de la g. des électeurs.

Quand les politiques n'ont plus d'autre argument à opposer à leurs détracteurs parce que les faits invalident les raisons de leurs décisions ils ont une phrase toute faite du genre :

“History will prove that ‘invading’ Iraq was the right thing to do.”
Toujours la même vieille astuce… Quand on ne sera plus là pour en discuter ni même le constater…

Quand il n’y a pas d’autre argument on rejette dans un avenir indéfini (c’est quand l’Histoire? 5 ans? 15 ans? 50 ans? 250 ans?) tout ce dont on ne peut rien tirer, comme dans un débarras où on reviendra faire le tri un jour, peut-être, jamais, allez savoir…

On pourrait d'ailleurs tout aussi bien dire le contraire : “History will prove that invading Iraq wasn’t the right thing to do”…

Ils sont sûrs d'eux: L’Histoire prouvera (rien de moins). Puisqu’ils le disent, eux la connaissent déjà l’Histoire… Ça tient de la divination alors.

C'est quand ils sont dans une mauvaise passe, eux et leurs supporteurs qu'ils sortent leur formule magique :
L'Histoire dira que le bilan de Sarkozy est exceptionnel

L’Histoire c’est du non advenu, du non existant, de l’imaginaire à la limite puisque c’est du domaine du non réel. On peut tout lui faire dire à l’Histoire puisqu’elle n’existe pas. l’Histoire n’existe que quand elle est advenue, pas avant, parce qu’alors c’est de l’anticipation c’est à dire de l’imagination, du fantasme, du vent. C'est comme un roman qui reste à écrire. Mais contrairement à ce que l'on peut se représenter, les ingrédients n'en sont jamais tous réunis. Et puis, qui l'écrit le roman?

S'en remettre à l'Histoire (à venir) du soin de déterminer si une décision devait être prise, c'est comme confier au néant le soin de donner raison au nom d'une supposée objectivité de l'Histoire. Or s'il est un domaine où il n'y pas d'objectivité, c'est bien l'Histoire...

L’argument en général peut porter parce que chacun comprend qu’il y a une Histoire et que le temps donnera le recul permettant d'apprécier "sereinement" la réalité des faits. Alors, après tout, peut-être bien qu'ils ont raison les politiques… allez savoir, ils ont une vision historique que nous n'avons pas, ils comprennent des choses qui nous échappent…

Le truc consiste à intervertir sa position (et celle des auditeurs) vis à vis du Temps en se plaçant fictivement dans l’après tout en étant réellement dans le présent. Il faut choisir, on ne peut pas être et avoir été.

Le coup de “l’Histoire dira” (que j’ai raison) relève de la même imposture: on bricole avec le concept du temporel, on se place à la fois maintenant et plus tard.

En plus, on a recours à un univers de taille: l’Histoire! Pensez-donc, ça peut impressionner…

C’est ici et maintenant, ou du moins très rapidement, que se juge une action, qu’elle soit personnelle ou collective, individuelle ou sociale.

Croire que l’avenir donnera raison à l’un ou à l’autre des choix effectués à un moment donné c’est supposer que les critères qui ont présidé à la décision seront appréciés selon les mêmes principes ou les mêmes valeurs à une autre époque de l’Histoire. C’est aussi associer les motivations du moment t avec les conséquences ou plutôt les développements inhérents au cours même du temps. C'est établir une chaîne de causalité dont on veut faire croire qu'elle se prolongera tout uniment à partir d'un moment t jusqu'à un moment (bien indéfini) où la Vérité apparaîtra sans que ladite chaîne de causalité n'ait été perturbée jusqu'au point de la dissolution par le flux incessant du cours des choses.

Ces développements n’étaient pas prévus car l’avenir est riche de tout ce qu’on ne peut prévoir, c’est son essence même, et il se peut, heureux hasard, qu’ils semblent pouvoir être compris comme une validation de choix bien antérieurs alors même que ce serait pure coïncidence. Mais il y a toujours d'autres développements qui infirment ce qu'on voudrait démontrer.

Il s’agit là d’une nouvelle fantaisie d’une raison à l’abandon parce que le fleuve des événements qui affectent le cours de l’Histoire est tellement immensément riche et inépuisable qu’il est toujours possible de choisir tel ou tel élément pour le faire entrer à posteriori dans le plan d’ensemble d’une décision qui aurait prévu des conséquences qui en fait sont imprévisibles.

L'histoire dira certes - et encore, il y a des débats qui divisent toujours les historiens quelques siècles après les faits! - mais on ne peut savoir ce qu'elle dira.

History will be kind to me for I intend to write it.

Winston Churchill

The Greeks are at it again

Grèce vs. Allemagne hier soir dans le cadre de l'Euro 2012.

The 4 P. rule

For what I understand, this statement held on January 20th 1981 signalled the start of what is known as Reaganomics. How fruitful it was for America, well I don't know but it was a major source of inspiration for rightist parties across Europe. 

That was particularly the case in France, starting with Chirac in his bids to become elected president in 1988 and on. Now, that is sort of ironic when one considers how the same man and his affiliates of the so-called centre were the most interventionists of all politicians during the 60s and 70s under De Gaulle, Pompidou and Giscard.

But never mind, now we've entered the XXIth century and "néo-libéralisme" as it was called in Europe before gaining the name "ultra-libéralisme", has been implemented in about all countries like Greece, Italy, Spain, Iceland and France of course but to a lesser degree though (notwithstanding Argentina). For some reason, Scandinavian countries have kept their head cool and are breezing with ease, safety and tranquillity. Ah, those socialist ignoramus in economics!

Obviously there have been some hitches on the road to prosperity and we're now witnessing how all these countries, former avant-garde of heavenly economical felicity, are now yelling out for rescue from European States. 

Oh, and look at Spain with a 25% unemployment rate, yes25%! And to think there was a special issue of Time (was it Newsweek?)  dedicated to the vibrant economy of this Mediterranean tiger some years ago... (also Spain was a docile ally in Iraq). What went wrong?

Even better: Obama is now calling for European States to act together in order to put an end to the mess liberal economic politics have brought in their countries.

At the end of the day, it all boils down to the same line from capitalists: Profits Privés, Pertes Publiques.

And the masses who believe they can choose their fate through universal suffrage keep on voting and electing the very ones whose ultimate goal is to fleece them in the name of abundance and personal welfare.

Contrairement à ce que professait Hegel, ll n'y a aucune rationalité en Histoire. Sheeps are sheeps, wolfs are wolfs and are not exactly interested with the formers happiness. 

I Confess

Yes, I confess I was kind of addict (I wouldn't have killed anybody not to miss an instalment though) to this sitcom twenty years ago... 

Men and women relationship has been the number one topic for dozens thousands of years in China as well as in Egypt, among the Incas as well as among the Celts and probably the cave men. Not sure about the humor said cave men could instil into sex relations though...

Of course I had never heard the original voices of Judith Light, Tony Danza et al.

 

(They've just cut the episode into three parts; one must see the end of part two in order to understand the beginning of this one)

Long live the Afghani!

So I underwent surgery a couple of weeks ago. Everything went o.k in the morning and I just felt some tickling in my forearm in the afternoon. 

That was when the anaesthetics were still being effective. But within half an hour they no longer were powerful and I ended up grinding my teeth, ploughing my bed's sheet with my left leg, snarling and growling, waiting for the 1000mg of paracetamol I had been given to ease my pain. To no avail of course, on this occasion it was as if I had been administered a dose of poudre de perlimpinpin (snake oil).

After I had waited far too long for the paracetamol to act, I eventually called for the nurse who asked me how much I would score on the pain scale from 1 to 10. 4657! I hurled at her, like it would make any difference whether it was 5, 6 or 10... Just relieve me stupid! No, I didn't say that last line to her but she finally understood that I really, really was feeling bad.

T'was like the surge was still working on me live and there was fire inside my forearm. Never before in my life had I felt so much and intense pain for so long. My whole body was wriggling and shaking with pain and she was asking me to give her some bloody number.

Eventually they gave me a shot of morphine and it hardly took one minute before I felt the pain abate. Ten minutes later, everything was nearly back to normal and the situation was under control, save that my body was still convulsing and shaking for minutes. Just that the same story happened the day after and once again I had to wait half an hour in agonizing pains before I could get my second shot of morphine.

And of course I know there are no limits to pain until one becomes mad or dies.

Now, morphine being a derivative from opium I say long live the Afghani! and put an end to this f. war in Afghanistan...
 

Petit rappel...

Vaclav Havel est mort il y a quelques jours et, comme il se doit, nous avons lu et entendu les hommages au grand homme, la « conscience européenne », « l' humaniste » etc. Mouais...

Qu'il ait été un des courageux dissidents de l'est et un auteur dramatique respectable est une chose mais je trouve qu'une fois encore les medias ont fait un grand silence sur un sujet qui n'est sans doute plus d'actualité (pas plus que son ancienne dissidence d'ailleurs) mais qui me semble tout de même bigrement intéressant du point de vue moral. 

A-t-on remarqué que Vaclav Havel est mort le jour même où le « dernier » (cough, cough) soldat américain quittait le sol Irakien? Quel rapport me demanderez-vous?

Eh bien, il se trouve que notre grand homme fut l'un des signataires de la lettre des huit en janvier 2003, lettre qui apportait son soutien à l'Administration Bush dans son entreprise guerrière en Irak.

Cette lettre publiée, par le Wall Street Journal (Rupert Murdoch anyone?), était un vrai coup de poignard dans le dos de la diplomatie française qui n'avait pas même été avertie de son existence comme il est coutume de faire entre chancelleries. Et Sarko de qualifier Havel de grand ami de la France! Ah bon? When was that?

Voilà donc un ancien dissident dont le pays avait été occupé pendant quelque 40 ans par des forces étrangères, donner son accord pour l'invasion (illégale!) d'un pays qui lui était totalement étranger. Au nom bien sûr des WMD, de la démocratie (see how "democratic" Iraq has become) etc. Un dissident bien conformiste pour le coup. Et tout à fait « démocratique » une fois encore puisque la majorité des Tchèques était opposée, comme tous les Européens, à cette expédition néo-colonialiste américaine au Moyen-Orient.

La République Tchèque a donc envoyé 300 hommes en Irak, en fait du personnel médical pour un hôpital de campagne. C'est bien le moins quand il y a une guerre qu'on cautionne de prévoir qu'il y aura des blessés à traiter...

L'humaniste a donc été reçu par Bush et la photo montre combien il en ronronne de plaisir. 

Par son soutien affirmé à la guerre d'Irak de 2003, Vaclav Havel est moralement responsable des 4.800 soldats morts là-bas et des 100.000? 200.000? Irakiens qui ont été tués dans les années qui ont suivi. Pas joli, joli pour la grande conscience européenne et l'humaniste exemplaire qui soutenait aussi l'initiative américaine d'installer un « bouclier » antimissile iranien avec installations en Pologne et en Tchéquie, contre l'opinion majoritaire de ses concitoyens. Mais on m'assure que c'était « démocratique ».

Comme on n'est jamais seul à avoir une idée, j'ai lu avec plaisir que d'autres partageaient mon avis ici et là.

A ce compte-là je préfère encore Chirac (and yet) qui vient de se prendre 2 ans et demi avec sursis.